Mephistopheles  Puffeth 
the  Sun  Out 

LUCILE  VERNON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE 

SUN  OUT 


MEPHISTOPHELES 
PUFFETH  THE 

SUN  OUT 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

LUCILE  VERNON 


BOSTON 

THE   STRATFORD  CO.,  Publishers 
1920 


Copyright   1920 

The  STRATFORD  CO.,   Publishers 
Boston,  Mass. 


The  Alpine  Press,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


DEDICATED  TO 

THAT  LITTLE  GROUP  OF  FRIENDS  KNOWN  BY  A 
NAME  TOO  LIGHT  FOR  REPETITION  HERE,  AND  BOUND 
BY  A  PURPOSE  TOO  SERIOUS  FOR  EXPOSITION  HERE, 
WHOSE  LOVE  "SUFFERETH  LONG  AND  IS  KIND."  .  .  . 

E.  L.  A. 
L.  L.  P. 
H.  W.  M. 

D.  H.  H. 
M.  T. 

E.  Me. 
H.  V.  T. 


Index  to  Contents 

Mephistopheles  Puffeth  the  Sun  Out   .        .      1 
Joan's  Lament  Over  Rheims       ...       3 

Is  Love  Everything? 5 

In  a  Calcutta  House 7 

Triad 10 

Cloudlets 11 

Boat  Song     .         .         .         .         .         .         .12 

In  the  Heart  of  May 13 

In   Memoriam .15 

To  M 17 

Sonnet 19 

To  E.  Me 20 

The  Burden 21 

Longing 24 

Watching 25 

Poppy  Petals        .        .  .        .        .27 

You're  Very  Too  Much  Like  the  One  That 

I  Loved  .        .        .        .        .28 


INDEX  TO  CONTENTS 

Vie  de  1'Ame 30 

Misunderstood 33 

Dead 35 

Gone  West 36 

Dead  Love .  38 

The  Shrine 41 

Love-Flowers 43 

"It  Is  To  Laugh" 44 

The  Last  Desire   .  46 


Mephistopheles  Puffeth  the  Sun  Out 


"^VT'OUR  doting,  love-sick  fool,  with  ease 

JL     Merely  his  lady-love  to  please 
Sun,    moon,    and    stars    in  sport    would    puff 

away."  * 

That's  truth,  oh,  Mephistopheles, 
Thou  speakest,  and  the  very  crux  of  it 
Lies    in    the    words    "would    puff";    ah,    yes, 

"would  puff"— 
And  cannot.     Come,  join  hands  with  me,  thou 

merry  Faustus  devil, 

Let  us  stand  and  watch  them  puff,  and  laugh 
At    blown     cheeks,     puffing-reddened,  —  all     in 

vain. 

Yon  goose  has  puffed  at  Venus  'till  his  eyes 
Are  bloodshot;  Venus  twinkles  on. 
Fool  over  yonder  blows  his  lungs  out,  — 
Seeks  to  blow  out  Mars.    The  idiot 
Standing  on  that  mountain  sucks  the  moon  in, 
And  all  he  gets  in  's  mouth  is  moonlight. 
"Doting,    love-sick    fools"   in   very   truth,    oh, 

devil, 
And  their  ladies  —  you  say  you  cannot  jest  with 

them  ;  p  -.  •, 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

I  dare — are  greater  fools  than  they  are, 

For  they  see  the  comic  efforts  to  puff  out  the 

sun, 
And  laugh  not.     Aye,  they  believe,  in  many 

instances, 
It  will  go  out,  being  ordered  to  go  out  and 

puffed  at 

With  breath  from  out  the  lips  of  lovers. 
Ha!    This  is  rare  sport,  Mephistopheles. 
In  three  short  lines  thou  taughtest  me 
To  see  much  new;   a  jest;    'tis  worth  reward. 
But   if  thou   canst   do   that   much   then   thou 

canst 

Do  all  else  that  they  cannot;  puff  the  sun. 
Go,  do  for  my  sake.    I'll  not  laugh.    I  know 
Thou  canst, — thou,  only;  go  I  pray. 

He's  gone.    He'll  puff  it  out 

But  not  for  me.    No  man  doth  such 

For  love  of  her  he  loves,  but  for  the  love 

Of  him  who  loves  her.     For  himself,  in  short! 

And  thou,  too,  devil,  dost  it  thus. 

'Tis  done  by  thee! — Because,  and  just  because 

All  that  thou  dost  is  done  for  self,  thyself, 

alone, 
And  thus  'tis  done.    Thus  only. 

*First    three    lines    from    "Faust." 

[2] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Joan's  Lament  Over  Rheims 

OMY  cathedral,  shattered  and  wasted, 
Desolate,  plundered,  grey  in  the  moon 
light, 

Skeleton,  standing  ruined  and  deserted, 
Rose-window  broken,  lying  in  fragments 
On  the  rude  cobbles, — fragments  once  lovely 
Jewels  of  the  daylight,  filtering  sunlight, — 
Rheims  is  laid  waste  by  the  invaders. 

Thou  wert  my  pride,  the  scene  of  my  triumph, 
Place   where   I   journeyed,   leading   the   Dau 
phin, — 

Promise  of  France  in  my  day  of  anguish, 
Prince  of  the  nation, — thither  I  brought  him, 
Crowned  him  at  Rheims, — the  altar  of  glory, — 
Now  it  is  shattered,  turned  to  a  coffin. 
Rheims  is  laid  waste  by  the  invaders. 

Great  leaden  tear-drops  hang  on  the  arches, 
Melted  by  blasting  fire  of  thy  foemen; 
Ruin-makers  swarmed,  grey  rats  'mid  thy  pil 
lars; 

[3] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

Stabbed  thy  Madonnas;  stole  thy  white  silver; 
Tore  thy  rich  draperies ;  scattered  thy  statues ; 
Burned  out  thy  candles;  trampled  thy  velvet; 
In  the  fair  place  I  won  with  my  bowmen. 
Rheims  is  laid  waste  by  the  invaders. 

Rheims!     Thus  I  mourn  thee,   weep   for  thy 

sorrows, 

Mingle  my  tears  with  thine  that  are  leaden; 
Rheims!     Thus  the   Maid   of  Orleans   grieves 

above  thee, 
Sobs   where    she   prayed,   laments   where    she 

triumphed, 

Then  turns  her  face  away  to  the  northward 
Where  the  great  fires  of  battle-strife  redden, — 
Rheims  is  laid  waste  by  the  invaders. 


[4] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Is   Love   Everything? 

"Is   love   everything   and    duty   and   the   memory 
of   the   past   nothing?" — Eliot. 

SHE'S  calling  you.    I  hear  her.    You  must 
go. 

Just  touch  my  hand  in  parting, — say  good-bye, 
Be  quick!    Be  off!    Say  that  you  loved  her  so 
Her  first  call  thrilled  you  and  you  could  not 
fly. 

Don't  kiss  me.    We  are  only  friends.    You're 

hers 

Where  kisses  are  concerned,  instead  of  mine, 
Mine  but  to  frolic  with,  as  Kitty  purrs 
And  tosses  high  in  air  her  ball  of  twine. 

As  innocent  as  that  the  game  we've  played. 
No  love  was  there, — oh,  perhaps  a  sigh  or  two, 
A  hasty,  sudden  flush  that  never  stayed, — 
But  now  it's  over, — and  she's  calling  you. 


[5] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

We  can 't  regret ;  don 't  sigh ;  go  answer  her. 
Forget  me  'till  we're  old  and  life  is  through, 
And  then,  and  only  then,  look  through  the  blur 
Of  years,  and  say  we  loved  and  never  knew. 

It  must  be  that  way.    Love's  not  everything; 
We    did   not    know    'till    now,    and   now    it's 

through. 

Ah,  well,  a  kiss,  then,  but  it  must  not  cling. 
Listen  to  Duty.    Go.    She 's  calling  you. 


[6] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


In  A  Calcutta  House 

YOU  say  I  am  a  Sahib?    Perhaps;   no  mat 
ter  what  I  am, 
Since  I  belong  most  anywhere  from  Lisbon  to 

Siam, 
What  matter  if  my  skin  is  browned  by  birth 

or  only  tanned, 
If  my  mother  was  a  nautch-girl  or  a  Lady  of 

the  Land? 
Ah,  Sahib,  when  you've  pulled  as  long  at  this 

black  pipe  as  I 
You'll     understand     just     what     your     birth 

amounts  to  when  you  die ; 
You'll  know  that  nothing  matters  while  the 

poppy  petals  draw; 
Life's  never  good  to  live  while   it   can  flick 

you  on  the  raw. 

I've  wanted  things  as  much  as  you, — worse, 

perhaps, — I  've  seen  the  best : 
Great,  dark,  male  rubies  from  the  East,  and 

women  from  the  West; 

[7] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

Rich  ivory  from  Portuguese  West  Africa's  hot 
coast ; 

An  emerald  from  a  tomb  where  lies  a  dried-up 
Rajah's  ghost; 

Mahogany,  and  teakwood,  and  carved,  sandal- 
scented  things; 

Wee  gods  of  jade,  and  dancers,  and  a  set  of 
magic  rings, 

And  strange  fire-opals;  one  black  pearl,  so 
weird  I  was  afraid ; 

I  wanted  these  as  none  beside  has  wanted  gold 
or  maid. 

Now,  Sahib,  nothing  matters,  save  the  Black 

Smoke  and  my  mat; 
My  pipe  is  more  to  me  than  all  the  thrones 

where  monarchs  sat, 
And  even  it  is  nothing;  and  the  hot  sun  beats 

outside, 
And  yonder  is  the  corner  where  the  man  from 

Tunis  died, 
And  the  Chink  who  gives  me  Smoke  is  dying, 

too,  but  what  to  me 
If  the  whole  of  India's  people  die,  from  Simla 

to  the  sea? 
Why  should  death  matter,  Sahib?    It  has  come 

to  men  before. 

[8] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

Or   time?     A   day, — what   value?     There    are 
thousands, — millions  more. 

My  pipe  is  failing.    Never  mind.    I'll  light  it, 

by  and  by, 
Or,  perhaps,  I'll  never  need  to,  for  I  know  I'm 

going  to  die: 
No,  there's  really  nothing,  Sahib,  that  I  feel  I 

want  to  say; 
I  haven't  any  money.     Jewels?     I  sold  them, 

day  by  day, 
For   poppy    smoke.      My    conscience?      Sahib, 

very,  very  sear. 
I've  robbed,  and  burned,  and  murdered, — that 

is  neither  there  nor  here. 
I  die, — now — very — happy — No !    Oh,  God,  man, 

what  a  lie ! 
I'm  English,  —  white,  —  God,  —  GOD !  —  MY 

SOUL !  —  Oh,  mother,  —  help !  —  I  die ! 


[9] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


Triad 

A    BUTTERFLY'S     reflection     where     he 
J\          comes  to  flit  and  suck, 
A  dancer  in  the  light ;  a  banjo  in  the  night ; 
These  three  be  Sweet  Sensation. 

A   butterfly's    wing   floating    in    the    scummy 

river-muck, 
A  nun  that  prays,  nor  sings;  and  broken  banjo 

strings ; 
These  three  be  Desolation. 


[10] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Cloudlets 

HOW  fast  those  little  clouds  go  scurrying 
by, 

Erupting  blotches  on  the  opal  sky, 
Behind  the  sunset,  just  before  the  moon, 

And  with  the  little  star  that  comes  too  soon. 

They  come  from  nowhere,  bursting  into  view 
In  somber  color,  steely,  blackish  blue. 
They  may  be  slight  in  meaning  as  in  form; 
They  may  portend  the  coming  of  a  storm. 

"Wee,  tiny  wisp-things  sailing  on  the  wind, 
No  source,  no  goal  but  what  they  chance  to 

find; 

They  fly  and  fly  until  the  moon  grows  white 
And  scares  them  into  hiding  from  the  night. 


[11] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


Boat  Song 

4    SAPPHIRE  boat  with  golden  oars 
/\       That  drip  bright,  opal  beads; 
Slim,  emerald  grasses  near  the  bank, 

And  down-tipped,  jetty  seeds; 
Flat,  crystal  water  far  before, 

A  diamond  trail  behind, 
And  on  the  silent  willow  trees 

Splinters  of  jade,  new-mined. 

Young  laughter  like  wee,  silver  bells, 

From  sparkling,  ruby  lips, 
And,  lingering  on  the  golden  oars, 

Pink,  pearl-nailed  finger-tips; 
A  face — a  living  cameo 

Above  an  ivory  throat. 
Could  one  but  drain  his  draught  of  death 

Within  the  sapphire  boat ! 


[12] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


In  the   Heart  of  May 

IT  dawned  the  fairest,  loveliest  day, 
All  pearl  in  the  golden  heart  of  May, 
And    mother-o '-pearl    curved    overhead 
For  sky ;  little  stars  not  yet  to  bed 
Till  dawn's  long  fingers,  pink  and  white, 
Reached  out  and  put  them  all  to  flight. 
Oh,  the  loveliest  day 
In  the  heart  of  May, — 
And  they  buried  her  that  morning. 

The  clearest  blue  and  golden  noon, 
A  .sharp,  little  silver  crescent  moon 
High  up  like  a  crown  on  Day's  bright  head. 
Soft  joy  in  the  words  the  May  wind  said, 
And  tender  grass  for  calves  to  nip. 
Fresh  honey  for  the  bees  to  sip. 

Oh,  the  loveliest  day 

In  the  heart  of  May, — 
And  they  buried  her  that  morning. 


[13] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

The  duskiest  evening,  greyish  and  green, 
And  all  misted  o'er  with  smoky  sheen; 
The  fragrance  of  blossoms  in  the  air, 
And  mockingbirds  singing  everywhere; 
Jet  crickets  chirping  on  the  lawn, 
And  stars  again  when  sun  had  gone. 

Oh,  the  loveliest  day 

In  the  heart  of  May, — 
And  they  buried  her  that  morning. 


[14] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


In  Memoriam 

(Of  Anne  Elizabeth  Spicer) 
Who  died  in  preparation  for  overseas  service 


I  SEEM  to  miss  you,  yet  I  do  not   grieve 
Because  I  know  you  did  not  fear  to  leave. 
You  thought  of  death  as  an  adventure  strange 
And  interesting;  nor  beyond  the  range 
Of  everyone  to  see,  and  have,  and  know; 
Why  should  I  grieve — you  dreading  not  to  go? 
And   then   I   know,   by   this   strange,    sudden 

chance 
Your  soul's  "Somewhere  in  France." 

You  left  me  here  behind,  yet  left  me  that 
Death  cannot  take — your  image  where  you  sat, 
And  memory  of  your  well-known  voice  and  face, 
Till  your  bare  room  is  left  a  hallowed  place; 
And  yet,  your  spirit's  not  so  close  as  those 
Of  others  o'er  whose  graves  the  spring  wind 

blows. 

It  is  not  here,  nor  'round  your  father's  manse; 
It  lives  "Somewhere  in  France." 

[15] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

Your  shoulders  bowed  already  for  your  share, 
Your  eyes  were  on  the  trenches  over  there, 
You  only  waited  to  begin  your  fight 
A  few  weeks  longer,   eyes  turned  toward  the 

light 

Of  gun-glare  where  your  noble  kinsmen  stood ; 
Your  spirit  could  not  wait;  it  left  your  blood 
And  body  here.    It  leads  the  great  advance 
Of  Victory  "Somewhere  in  France." 


[16] 


AND   OTHER    POEMS 


ToM. 

HAD  we  been  men  together, — we — 
We  might  have  pitched  our  tent 
Somewhere  tonight  'neath  the  Northern  Light 
On  the  trail  of  gold  dust  bent. 

We  might  have  slept  the  tropic  night 

Beneath  the  Southern  Cross; 
In  the  starlight  pale  heard  the  conches  wail 

And  smelled  the  burning  joss. 

We  might  be  smoking  by  the  rail 

Of  a  long-forgotten  tramp 
Worth   half  its   cost,   while   the   black   waves 
tossed 

Below  the  starboard  lamp. 

We  might  be  leaning  o'er  the  wheel 

In  a  Monte  Carlo  lair 
To  watch  the  rake  that  no  gold  can  slake 

Sweep  the  green  baize  table  bare. 

[17] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

We  might  be  sitting  round  the  fire 

Beyond  the  jackal's  cry, 
With  an  empty  cup,  water-hole  drunk  up, 

Waiting  quietly  to  die. 

We  might  be  out  in  Flanders  fields; 

And  that  were  best  of  all, 
'Mid  the  fire  and  shot  and  the  shrapnel  hot, 

To  hear  an  old  friend's  call. 

And  then  you  might  be  wounded  sore, 

And  I  might  bring  you  through 
The  showering  lead, — but  'tis  useless  said, 

For  we're  not  men, — we  two. 


[18] 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Sonnet 

(To  M.  T.) 

Thine  eyes  are  sonnets  unto  life,  Beloved; 
Thy  lips  are  flowers  that  open  but  to  kiss ; 
Thy  cheek's  soft  curve  is  rich,  incarnate  bliss; 
Thy  hands  are  sea-shells,  pink,  pearl-decked, 

ungloved ; 

Thy  voice  is  low,  sweet,  throbbing  from  a  viol ; 
Thy  hair  is  midnight,  quiv'ring  with  the  voice 
Of  nightingales ;  thy  throat  were  Venus '  choice 
With  which  the  cold  Adonis  to  beguile; 
Thy  name  is  ancient,  chanting  Israel, 
Its  cadence  mighty  Moses  loved  full  well; 
Thy  smile  is  a  young  mother's  evening  croon; 
Thy  heart  is  glowing,  deathless,  ruby  fire; 
Beloved,    thy    soul    than    all    these    things    is 

higher, 
It  is  the  pale-gold  gleaming,  distant  moon. 


[19] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


To  E.  Me. 

THE  feel  of  your  brow  in  the  palm  of  my 
hand, 

0  my  dear, 
And  the  curl  of  your  hair,  fine  like  silk,  gold 

like  sand, — 
Soft  and  clear; 
The  warm,  pliant  flexing  of  flesh  in  my  arm's 

Loose  embrace ; 

The  upturning  chin,  and  the  half-dreamy  smile 
On  your  face. 

This  is  you  as  I  know  you  and  love  you  so  well 

Every  day. 
This  is  you  as  I  feel  your  dear  heart  sink  and 

swell, 

Grave  or  gay; 
With  a  kiss, — not  too  often, — just  once  in  a 

while 

From  your  lips, 
And  a  soul,  back  of  all,  fresh  and  sweet,  like 

the  dew 
Morning  sips. 

[20] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


The  Burden 

THE  warrior's  mother  wept  in  bitter  pain, 
And  moaned  in  woe, 
For  word  had  come  her  eldest  born  was  slain 

By  brutal  foe, 
"Was  nailed  upon  a  tree  and  crucified 

In  far-off  land, 

Had  died  in  anguish  as  the  Saviour  died, 
Pierced  side  and  hand. 

The  soul  of  her  rose  up  at  last  in  wrath. 

"I  go,"  she  cried, 
"I  take  his  sword,  I  tread  his  bloody  path, 

Till  those  have  died 
Who  nailed  my  son  upon  that  bitter  tree; 

I  go,  today. 
0  Mother,  Mary,  lead  me  there  with  thee, 

Lead  me,  I  pray." 

But  Mary  answered  not.    The  mother  called 

Still  to  her  name, 
"Oh,  dost  thou,  Mary,  ask  I  stand  appalled, 

[21] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

And  bear  my  shame? 
I  cannot  rest  here,  knowing  he  is  slain; 

Oh,  lead  thou  me! 
If  may  be,  let  me  bear  the  self-same  pain 

Upon  the  tree." 

Then  lo!  the  room  wherein  the  mother  prayed 

Was  filled  with  light, 
And  to  her  eyes  a  sacred  form  displayed 

In  mystic  white. 
The  hair  was  long  and  gold  like  dust  of  stars, 

The  veins  were  blue 
Beneath    the    eyebrows'    slender    golden    bars, 

The  breath  was  dew. 

Upon  the  coral  firmness  of  her  lips, 

Her  flesh  was  white, 
And  rosy  dawn  was  in  her  finger-tips ; 

Her  eyes  were  night, 
For  ah,  within  those  sorrowing  eyes  was  dark 

And  wondrous  woe, 
In  them  alone  the  pain  had  left  its  mark 

Of  life  below. 

And  Mary  Mother  laid  her  slender  palm 
Upon  that  head 

[22] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

That  bowed  before  her  to  receive  the  balm 

Of  words  she  said : 
"Am  I  to  lead  thee  where  thy  son  is  slain 

As  mine  was  slain? 
Am  I  to  lead  thee  to  avenge  the  pain 

That  was  my  pain? 

"I  know  as  none  can  know  what  thou  hast 
borne ; 

Weep  on,  poor  heart, 
'Twill  ease  thy  dreadful  anguish,  thus  to  mourn 

Ere  I  depart. 

But  when  I've  gone  then  dry  thine  eyes,  nor 
pray 

For  me  to  lead 
Forth  to  thy  vengeance,  nor  ask  thou  the  way 

To  fight  and  bleed. 

"He  died  for  thee,  that  thou  might  live  as  I 

To  pray  to  God, 
And  save  by  prayer  a  world  that  strayed  to  die 

Beneath  the  rod. 
I  did  not  ask  to  venge  my  Son  the  goad 

Nor  ask  to  be 
Beside  Him  on  the  cross.     His  fallen  load 

Enough  for  me." 

[23] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


Longing 

I  LIVE.    The  warm  spring  days  slide  slowly 
by, 

Life  passes  as  the  meadows  pass  a  train ; 
I  am  alone.    It  is  not  new  to  me, 
I've  been  alone  before.    There  is  no  pain 
In  me  for  loneliness.    Not  in  my  heart, 
At  least,  but  yesterday  I  felt  an  ache, 
Yet  not  an  ache, — not  so  much  agony, — 
A  longing  emptiness  I  cannot  shake 
From  me.    I  love  you.    You  know  that  full  well, 
But  yet  it  is  not  love  that  hungers  so. 
A  day  or  two  would  matter  none  to  love, 
And  other  lips  are  here  to  keep  the  flow 
Till    yours    return    again.      Light    loves — you 

know 

How  they  are, — soothe  a  pain, — yet  naught  be 
tide. 

It's  something  else  in  me  that  misses  you. 
What  is  it?    Is  it  soul?    I  can't  decide. 


[24] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Watching 

I  SOUGHT  for  you  in  the  accustomed  places, 
I  looked  for  you  in  all  the  little  places; 
Amid  the  books  I  watched  and  watched  for 

you; 

I  looked  with  longing  at  the  passing  faces, 
I   sought  your  face   among  the  passing   faces, 
I  watched  at  dusk  when  all  the  world  was  blue. 

I  waited  for  your  footstep  in  the  twilight ; 

I  listened  for  your  footstep  in  the  twilight; 

I  lifted  happy  eyes  when  someone  came; 

I  gazed  into  the  dusk  with  tear-dimmed  eye 
sight, 

I  watched  the  dark'ning  road  with  anxious  eye 
sight, 

I  murmured  low  your  dear,  familiar  name. 

I  waited,  hoped, — they  told  me  you  were  com 
ing,— 

How  trustingly  I  waited  for  your  coming! 
And  then  one  day  the  postman  at  the  door 

[25] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

Brought  word  of  you.    I  opened  it,  still  hum 
ming, 

(How  strange  to  think,  now,  I  was  ever  hum 
ming) 

And  read,  "He  will  not  come." 

I  watch  no  more 


[26] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Poppy  Petals 

THERE'S  a  Boy  like  a  slumbrous  poppy 
And  his  lips  are  a  crimson  red, 
And  his  eyes  are  brown  like  the  curls  that  crown 
His  delicate,  princely  head. 

There's  a  poppy  in  Argonne  Forest, 
And  its  petals  are  strangely  red 

Like  a  splash  of  blood  in  the  Argonne  mud 
O'er  the  place  where  the  Boy  lies  dead. 


[27] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


You're  Very  Too  Much  Like  the  One 
That  I  Loved 

YOU'RE  very  too  much  like  the  one  that 
I  loved 

In  stature,  and  bearing,  and  way, 
And  a  sigh  hurts  my  throat  when  I  see  you  so 

near, — 
A  sigh  for  a  long-buried  day. 

There's  a  trick  of  your  eye-lashes  over  your 
cheek, 

A  mellow  brown  light  in  your  eye, 
A  queer  little  serious  twitch  of  your  mouth, 

A  whispering  song  in  your  sigh, 

A  little  up-tilt  of  your  chin — just  the  same, 
And  the  same  planes  of  light  on  your  brow, 

And  a  waxy,  cream  freshness  of  skin,  cool  and 

clean, 
Like  jasmines  fresh-picked  from  the  bough. 

[28] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

There 's  a  difference  slight  in  the  touch  of  your 
hand, 

Your  fingers  are  softer  than  his, 
And  longer, — and  oh!  they've  unbolted  a  door 

Where  a  too-saddened  Memory  is. 


[29] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


Vie  de  1'Ame 

'1%  yf"Y  cheeks  are  young  and  I  am  young 
J3_JL         and  laugh, 

My  heart  is  old  and  old,  and  sits  all  day 
In  ash  and  sackcloth,  gnawing  husks  and  chaff 
Clean-beat  of  grains,  and  sings  a  sorry  lay, 
And  hopes  to  find  a  poppy,  strike  a  note, 
In  husk,  in  dirge,  to  deaden  it  for  aye." 

Oh,  thus  I  sang,  but  'tis  not  now  that  way. 
Your  love  has  come  to  walk  with  me  again; 
'Tis  you,  the  you  I  loved;  I  ask  no  more. 
I  do  not  see  you  as  I  saw  you  then, — 
I  love  you  better  than  I  loved  before. 

Need  we  those  senses  in  this  mystic  world 
That  number  on  the  fingers  of  a  hand? 
Lose  we  our  All  by  bolts  from  Fortune  hurled 
To  fall  by  chance,  on  souls  or  in  the  sand  ? 


[30] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

Nay,  He  who  gave  us  souls  were  not  so  cruel 
To  make  those  souls  dependent  on  a  sense, 
To  tie  immortal  things  by  mortal  rule; 
Souls  yoked  to  cells? — then  were  no  Passing 
Hence. 

And  so  it  is  you  come  to  me  at  night 
And  walk  with  me  long  ways  beneath  the  stars, 
Nor  do  you  fade  when  comes  the  silver  light 
All  spreading  o'er  the  sky  in  virgin  bars. 

I  feel  your  kiss,  your  arms,  your  beating  heart, 
I  hear  again  the  sob  that  caught  and  held 
The  night  I  sang  before  we  had  to  part, 
I  see  your  breast  that  throbbed  with  pain  and 
swelled. 

I  know  your  eyes,  my  fingers  touch  your  hair, 
Again  I  feel  your  hand  around  my  own, — 
'Tis  not  a  mockery;  'tis  true  and  fair; 
You  dwell  with  me ;  I  am  no  more  alone. 

And  in  this  land  of  love  we  have  our  joys, 
Our  glorious  souls,  our  life,  our  tall,  fair  son, 
Far  better  than  unwelcome,  unasked  boys 
Who  might  have  come  when  jaded  love  was 
done. 

[31] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

"My  cheeks  are  young  and  I  am  young  and 

laugh ; 

My  heart  is  old  and  old,  and  sits  all  day 
In  ash  and  sackcloth,  gnawing  husks  and  chaff 
Clean-beat  of  grains,  and  sings  a  sorry  lay, 
And  hopes  to  find  a  poppy,  strike  a  note, 
In  husk,  in  dirge,  to  deaden  it  for  aye." 

That  song  I  sing  no  more.    I  see  the  way. 


[32] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Misu  nderstood 

1%  TISUNDERSTOOD!     And   you   lie    there 
1VJL         half  dead, 

Believing  the  falsest  thing  that  e'er  was  said 
Of  me,  beloved, — that  I  was  false  to  you; 
How  could  you  believe  it,  knowing  as  you  do 
How  much  I  gave,  how  much  I  longed  to  give? 
I  risked  my  life's  one  chance  that  you  might 

live. 

Not  love  you?    Find  another  love  instead? 
You  believed  that?    Oh,  your  warm  heart  must 

have  bled ! 

You  believed  a  worse  thing  still  than  that,  of 

me. 

I'm  learning  much  with  eyes  too  wet  to  see. 
You  thought  I  left  you  for  that  wretched  gold ! 
You  thought  the  heart  you  held  so  dear  was 

sold! 
How  could  you  think  these  things? — and  yet,  I 

heard 
And  believed  almost  as  bitter-false  a  word 

[33] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

Of  you.    I  ask  your  dear  forgiveness  now, 
Before  the  death-dew  settles  on  your  brow. 

You're  dying!    0  Beloved,  sink  not  so  fast, 
Wait,  wait,  just  for  the  sake  of  our  dear  past. 
For  us  there  is  no  future,  that  I  know; 
It  is  all  checked  by  Death.    God  orders  so. 
Why  we  can  never  see,  nor  shall  we  try ; 
It  being  so  and  fixed,  why  seek  the  why  ? 
The  present,  then,  is  all  for  our  sad  souls ; 
A  broken  past; — and  gloom  that  o'er  us  rolls. 

Misunderstood;     0   Heav'n,   that  bitter  word, 
Coined  but  for  heartbreak,  sorrow's  stamp  con 
ferred 

Upon  a  heart,  and  seared  deep  in  until 
The  heart  is  burned  and  helpless,  and  lies  still. 
It  burned  my  own  to  death  within  my  breast ; 
It's  scarring  yours  that's  waiting  for  its  rest. 
Misunderstood !    Could  I  but  take  your  hand 
And  go  with  you  and  Death, — you'd  under 
stand. 


[34] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 


Dead 

KILLED?    Dead?    The  words  re-echo  thru 
the  gloom. 

The  lips  I  kissed  lie  sod-bound  in  the  tomb ; 
The  arms  that  clasped  me  lie  close  on  your 

breast 

Cramped  in  the  coffin  where  is  death,  not  rest; 
The  stalwart  shoulder  where  I  laid  my  head 
Is  smothered  there  in  satin  pillows — dead; 
Your  cheek  once  warm  and  rough  against  my 

own 
Is  green  and  grey  and  clinging  o'er  the  bone. 

Killed?    Dead?     The  very  pulsing  blood 
That  once  raced  thru  you  in  a  swollen  flood 
Is  black  and  cold  and  thickened  in  the  vein ; 
Your  bones  are  dead,  your  flesh  is  dead,  your 

brain; 

But  one  thing  lives  in  you  and  comes  to  me : 
I  feel  your  live  soul  as  it  used  to  be. 
I  feel  its  essence  floating  from  the  gloom 
On    dead-white    rose-leaves    scattered    in    your 

tomb. 

[35] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


Gone  West 

GONE  west ! 
Crushed  out  amid  a  gush  of  purple  blood 
Lying,  face  downward,  in  the  Flanders  mud; 
Lad  that  I  gathered  violets  with  last  spring, 
Undreaming  what  the  summer  months  would 

bring, 
And  take  away. 

Gone  west! 

Last  March  it  was  we  watched  Spring  come 

and  dreamed; 

Then  came  the  Sixth  of  April,  and  it  seemed 
That  Spring,  and  love,  and  joy,  and  youth  had 

gone 

And  black,  chaotic  night  obscured  the  dawn, — 
You  went  to  war. 

Gone  west! 

The  splendid  body  I  so  oft  admired 

Lies  where  it  fell  when  some  unknown  one  fired 

Who  never  knew  the  mark  his  bullet  found, 

Nor  saw  the  virile  man  it  brought  to  ground, 

To  die  in  France. 

[36] 


AND   OTHER   POEMS 

Gone  west? 

Ah,  yes;   your   eyes   are   closed,   your   strong 

limbs  rest, 
It's   something   else    of   you   that   has   "gone 

west, ' ' — 

Gone  west  from  France  until  it  nestles  by 
The  spot  where  I  am;  let  your  body  lie. 
Your  soul's  gone  west. 


[37] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


Dead  Love 

I  WONDER  if  that  hour  will  come  to  you 
When  love,  that  love  you  have  cried  out 
against,  is  dead. 
I   wonder,   when   you've   fought   the   tempest 

through 

And  it  is  past,  and  all  the  sunset's  red, 
Then  will  you  wish  another  morning 's  dawning, 
And  will  you  believe  another  day  can  come, 
Or  will  you  rest,  the  burning  love-sun  scorn 
ing, 
The  heart  forgetting,  that  lies  cold  and  dead. 

I  wonder  if  the  thought  will  come  to  you 
That  night  and  green-cheeked  Death  upon  your 

heart 

Are  better  than  the  heat  and  scarlet  hue, 
The  fret  and  torment  that  are  love's  main  part. 
I  wonder  if  you'll  smile  and  see  full  clearly 
With  eyes  no  fog  can  ever  dim  again, 
Or  will  you  dream  of  power  to  love  more  dearly, 
And  believe  that  there  may  still  be  loved  men? 

[38] 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 

I  wonder,  will  you  fling  aside  tradition 
Which  says  that  none  of  us  can  live  alone, 
Acknowledge  all  the  thoroughness  of  transition 
That  comes  when  love  is  too  well-slain  to  moan, 
Confess  that  none  may  ever  make  your  heart 

beat 

The  faster  by  a  single  second's  length, 
Confess  that  ne'er  again  for  you  can  lips  meet 
In   kiss   where   lust's   forgot   in   love's   pure 

strength  ? 

Or  will  you  love,  I  wonder,  all  unbelieving 
That  dimpled  Love  could  ever  have  a  grave, 
And  will  your  life's  love  keep  you  from  per 
ceiving 

That  life  can  take  away  the  gift  youth  gave  ? 
And  will  the  one  flame  in  your  untorn  heart 

burn, 
Kept  bright  by  loyalty,  warm  by  home-life's 

fuel, 

Or  will  you,  broken  on  the  wheel's  turn, 
See  that  dead  love,  alone,  of  all  things  is  not 
cruel? 

[39] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFPETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

'Tis  always  thus  I  muse  when  I  see  lovers, 
Or  those  who  have  loved,  or  who  may  love,  yet, 
Or   those    above    whose    heads    a   heartbreak 

hovers, 

Or  those  who  lie,  caught  in  a  loveless  net. 
I  probe,  sometimes,  to  find  if  hearts  are  living ; 
Perhaps  I  hurt;  I  do  not  know,  nor  care, 
Perhaps;  true,  all  the  thought  I'm  giving 
To  life,  is  but  to  learn  how  live  souls  fare. 

I  wonder  if  you'll  wonder  where  my  heart  is, 

And  wonder,  is  it  quick  or  is  it  dead, 

And  wonder,  could  it  be  my  soul's  best  part  is 

Buried,  and  my  soul  is  in  my  head; 

Or  will  you  say  it  must  be  living,  beating, 

Loving,  knowing  the  love  that's  from  above, 

Or  else  I  could  not  write  so  fleeting, 

Unembittered  an  acceptance  of  Dead  Love? 


[40] 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


The  Shrine 

A  S  I  was  passing  on  the  walk  one  morn 
l\    Not  long    ago,    and   pond 'ring   God,    I 

heard, 

Close  to  my  side,  the  querying,  low  soft  note, 
The  gentle  cooing  of  a  peaceful  bird. 

I  turned  and  gazed  across  the  blackened  sward 
Which  cleansing  fire  had  swept  the  night  be 
fore; 

The  fresh-burnt  odor  mingled  with  the  mist 
Which    spread    the    frost-touched,     sparkling, 
sweet  earth  o'er. 

And  there,  before,  I  saw  as  fair  a  sight 
As  ever  greeted  beauty-loving  eyes. 
A  flock  of  doves  was  feeding  on  the  sward, 
And  now  and  then  a  single  bird  would  rise 

And  circle,  cooing  softly  to  his  mates, 
And  move  his  snowy  wings,  and  gently  bless 
As  one  among  a  group  of  angels  might 
Bestow  a  benediction, — half  caress. 

[41] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 

And  even  as  I  watched  it  seemed  to  me 

That  here  was  pure  white  beauty, — here  was 

God; 

And  lo !  my  soul  ceased  pondering  and  knelt 
Before   the   snow-white   doves   and  blackened 

sod. 


[42] 


AND   OTHER  POEMS 


Love-Flowers 

ROB,  Rob,  was  it  so  long  ago  we  sinned ? 
Our  babe's  a  child;    that    love-flower's 
grown  so  wise 

I  dare  not  see  her,  more.    The  sisters  say 
She  might  remember  some  day,  and  surmise 
The  reason  for  the  bitter,  longing  love 
Deep  in  an  unknown  woman's  hungry  eyes. 

And  so  I  kissed  our  Julie  long  today, 
(She  asked  me,  softly,  why  I  always  cried) ; 
The  sister  in  her  sable  veil  and  robe 
Saw  my  unbanded  finger,  knew,  and  sighed, 
And,  as  I  turned  to  go,  she  murmured  soft, 
Her    beads    clasped    tight,    "Ah,    Mother,    my 
child  died." 

I  paused  and  looked  into  her  lustrous  eyes, — 
Black  pearls  that  gleamed  beneath  her  sombre 

veil, — 

Then  down  at  Julie's  thick,  gold-threaded  hair. 
"Next  time  you  kneel  before  your  altar  rail, 
Thank  God  it  did,"  I  said.  The  sister  bowed, 
"I  do," — but  her  calm,  gentle  face  grew  pale. 
[43] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


"It  Is  To  Laugh" 

THERE  is  nothing  in  life  but  laughter, — 
And  that  is  a  jest  itself, — 
From  the  dreams  of  an  amorous  lover 

To  a  thief's  ill-gotten  pelf, 
For  the  one  will  be  false  and  the  other  be  brass 
And  their  owners  the  jests  of  the  crowds  that 

pass, — 
Broken  dolls  on  the  Toysmith's  shelf. 


There  is  nothing  in  life  but  laughter, 

The  laughter  of  Destiny's  jeers, 
Ironic,  sarcastic,  and — mirthless, 

Scarce  fitted  for  drying  of  tears. 
There  is  nothing  more  bitter  than  Fate's  little 

quip, 
Deep  scarrings  are  made  by  her  coin's  little 

flip, 
Her  laughter  awakens  our  fears. 

[44] 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Yet,  there's  nothing  in  life  but  laughter, 

So  why  should  we  ever  be  sad  ? 
And  there's  nothing  in  laughter  but  cruelty, 

So  why  should  we  ever  be  glad? 
Thus,  life's  sole  relief  is  unfeeling  existence, 
Yet  a  theory  of  paralyzed  life  lacks  consis 
tence — 

If  Earth  knew  the  truth  'twould  go  mad : 

That  there's  nothing  in  life  but  laughter, 
''Fate's  irony's"  more  than  a  phrase, 

And  the  things  that  we  think  we  have  buried 
Appear  again,  leaving  us  dazed. 

The  things  called  eternal  are  quickest  to  die, 

The  men  marked  as  liars  are  least  apt  to  lie, — 
"  'Tis  to  laugh"  at  the  world's  twisted  ways. 


[45] 


MEPHISTOPHELES  PUFFETH  THE  SUN  OUT 


The  Last  Desire 

WHEN  the  body  is  dying,  the  heart  is  dead, 
And  all  that  will  ever  be  said  is  said, 
And  all  that  will  ever  be  done  is  done, 
And  the  tired  eyes  look  at  the  setting  sun 
In  a  parting  token  of  last  farewell, 
And  the  tired  ears  hark  to  the  evening  bell 
Once  more,  ere  the  funeral  toll  is  rung, 
"When  the  song  of  a  life  at  last  is  sung, 
And  the  gloomy  mourners  begin  to  weep, 
And  the  white  lids  droop  for  the  final  sleep, 
'Tis  then  that  the  new-freed  soul  turns  back 
And  looks  once  more  at  the  beaten  track, 
And,  before  it  speeds  to  the  far  Above, 
Knows  its  last  desire — a  mother's  love. 


[46] 


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PS  Vernon  - 

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